


Thicker Than Water

by charcoalmink



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Other, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:30:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalmink/pseuds/charcoalmink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thicker Than Water

It’s been a while, but he remembers how to drive. It’s not something one quite forgets; not completely, anyway. He drives because this is something he should do for himself, by himself. He drives because it makes him pass St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. He drives because it makes him put two hands on the wheel and _acknowledge_ what he has done.

Parking isn’t difficult. It’s cutting the engine and getting out of the car that’s hard. It’s putting two feet on the concrete and approaching the black door that makes his hands shake.

Seventeen steps and a handful of seconds are all it takes to ascend [theoretically]. But it takes much longer than that to reach the landing.

He was wrong. When he stops, he realizes it’s the knocking he can’t do. He has to try several times before he achieves it. Patiently, he waits for the door to open.

“Mycroft.”

John looks good, though weary. His eyes flick over the man in the way that he has never been able to control. John’s clothes are tidy, but worn [thinning fabric, no new articles: no motivation to go shopping, then]. There are bags under his eyes [exhaustion, insomnia] and a slouch to his shoulders that belies his military career.

“What are you doing here?” He doesn’t move away from the door and Mycroft doesnt try to make him.

“May I come in?” His voice is level, something he is proud of. He knows that he shows no outward signs of grief. He’s long since learned to hide it.

There’s a moment of suspended stillness, before John’s manners push him aside. Mycroft inclines his head and strides towards the armchairs. He hesitates, then takes the one with the Union Jack pillow.

“Tea?’ John’s voice is clipped [fury, forced calmness, an underlying sense of fatigue].

“Please.” He looks around and notices how altogether different it feels. It’s neater, for one [books on the shelves, papers in stacks] and he can only see one laptop. Something in his gut clenches at the sight and he tears his eyes away. The display of bullets and insects are still present, and so is the skull. The knife remains on the mantle as well, though it no longer protrudes from a sheaf of papers.

John returns with a tray, and Mycroft sits up to accept his cup.

“You’re lucky I still buy sugar.” It’s an offhand comment, but not one to be overlooked. Mycroft has learned that John Watson rarely says pointless things.

“Thank you--”

“Why are you here?” John sits on the edge of his seat, muscles tense. He seems uncomfortable with the furniture. Mycroft wonders if he’d made the wrong choice. [He’s not right as often as he used to be.]

“I wanted to see how you were coping. Your relationship with Sherlock was--”

“It’s been months, Mycroft.” John doesn’t usually interrupt people, so it’s a fair shock that he does it now.

“Yes, well.” He raises his cup, but finds that he can’t bring himself to drink it. John’s own sits on the tray, and Mycroft lowers his hand. “I’m sorry.”

John‘s hands fist on his knees and his jaw tenses. He averts his gaze and says in a quiet voice, “For what?”

His chest feels tight, but Mycroft stubbornly ignores it. “John, I am _sorry_. He was my brother--”

“And you _sold him out_ to Jim Moriarty--”

“ _He was my brother_!” It takes Sherlock Holmes to make him raise his voice, and Mycroft’s hand is trembling when he strikes his umbrella against the floor. John visibly stiffens and the air is heavy and stale.

The tea grows cold and Mycroft leaves in silence. He realizes that walking down is just as difficult as walking up.

He doesn’t drive. He finds that he’s forgotten how.


End file.
